Billingsgate Shoal (41 page)

"Reggie Thompson and the UFF?"

"Yep. So he told the IRA he was fresh out of
small arms—even those he'd promised to deliver some time ago. This
was a big mistake."

" 'Cause the IRA found out he was supplying
weapons to the enemy."

"Exactly. Actually, O'Shaughnessey tells me it
was Laura who made the initial contact with UFF's men. That's why the
IRA was so anxious to put her away. It wasn't long before the Provos,
and their stateside contacts in Boston and Southie had discovered the
double-cross on the part of the arms suppliers and put the hit notice
out on both of them. They were dead ducks from that time forth. It
was O'Shaughnessey's job to infiltrate the ring with a faked
identity, then lie in wait to make the big haul, getting everybody in
the organization, including most especially the UFF contacts. How
successful he ultimately was only time will tell. But the big guy who
saved my life—"

"What was his name anyway?"

"O'Shaughnessey won't tell me, although he
knows."

"They that close, the Garda and the IRA?"

"Not close at all. Stephen says if I knew the
man's name my life would be endangered. And I believe him. But as I
was about to say, Thug Number One, the Big Man, made a mistake when
he stole Schilling's cruiser and blew up the
Coquette
.
There was nobody from UFF on board. The boat, as its French name
implies, belonged to the other customers—"

"The militant French separatists?"

"Yeah. The Provo blew up a bunch of Quebec
nationalists who were, O'Shaughnessey thinks, going to take Ms.
Kincaid and Schilling up to the Maritimes."

"While they left the Rose Boating temptingly in
Gloucester Harbor."

"Yes, and tempting enough so I bought her at
state auction."

"With some of my money." .

"With some of your money. Which you will get
back."

"Who the hell'd buy that spaghetti strainer
now?"

"I am going to have it repaired and sold, don't
worry. The electronic gear, fittings, and engine alone are worth more
than what she cost us."

"And you still believe Kincaid hit the jackpot.
. ."

"I'm convinced of it. The letter from A. J.
Liebnitz which you have laid eyes on should convince you as well. You
yourself saw the space along the
Rose's
keel reserved for the treasure. Now if you're ready, I want you to
phone the Essex Realty Company of Manchester, and ask for the key to
the Kincaid domicile. Say it's an investigation and we're taking a
crew in to get prints and the like. We want to go alone, with no
salesperson."

He rose and swaggered toward the pay phones.

"Remember, Joe. Official police business. No
salesperson—we want the key only."

"Whaddayuh think I yam. . .dummer somethin'?"

Gee, I hoped he wasn't too bombed to convince them. .
.
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EYGHT

AT QUARTER TO six, after the last visitor had left
the Kincaid mansion, we were allowed to proceed there—alone—with
the key. I jingled it in my hand, happy as a kid on Christmas
morning, as we trudged up the curved walkway and then around the side
yard, with its creeping bent lawn, marble statues, and Japanese
garden. Under my arm I carried a Polaroid SX-70 camera.

"Christ Almighty, some spread."

"Now look over there."

"What? That patch of earth? A buried treasure'!
C'mon Doc, you've read too many Argosy magazines. He wouldn't bury it
for Chrissake, use your—"

"'Course he wouldn't. He buried an oil tank
there. I know because I checked with the realtor earlier for records
of any recent house improvements. I called the company that installed
the tank. I know the tank was connected to the appropriate pipes
too."

"Well then why—"

"But. I also checked a bit further. I even spoke
with the man who operated the backhoe prior to the installation. The
tank measured just under ten feet long. Pace the turned earth and you
see it's about eighteen feet long. What else is down there'?"

"Look. After losing two grand on that old
[fishing boat I am not about to get a shovel and start digging."

"We're not going to do any digging. When I first
started really thinking about this, I was on the phone for an entire
day calling various stores, supply houses, and rental agencies.
Walter Kincaid, in his own name, rented an air impact hammer and a
small compressor last April. He also rented a small cement mixer. The
agency has the records. But the really interesting thing is this: he
bought a septic tank."

"No shit."

"Ah, the very phrase I was seeking. That indeed
is the interesting part: no shit; The town of Manchester has had
sewers for almost fifty years. Ergo: no need for cesspools, septic
tanks, so forth. So why the septic tank?"

We went inside. It was just dark. The expensive
furniture was covered with white dropcloths.

"It was the backhoe man who tipped me off about
the septic tank. It was dropped in the hole and covered before the
oil tank even arrived. You know I had to phone almost twenty septic
tank companies before I found the right one? Kincaid had paid for the
thing in cash. The company is in Stoneham. He sure didn't want to
leave any tracks. While the oil tank was public and official, with
records to prove and document it, the septic tank was strictly on the
QT."

We descended into the basement—which people in New
England call the cellah—and I located the southwest corner of the
building, then paced off eight steps. We were in the furnace room.

We paced around the place for fifteen minutes. Zilch.

"Yah know, Doc, you're the best bullshitter I've
ever known."

"Now why on earth would you say that?"

"OK, here's Doc Adams, the hero who cracked the
gun-running ring. Fine. But then you get me to tap the post office I
box of what's-his-ass—"

"Wallace Kinchloe. Who of course was really
Walter Kincaid."

"Fine. Anyway, we tap the box and what do we
find? A letter from this plush bank in the Caribbean that indicates
that old Kinchloe's got a fortune in gold he's about to deposit
there."

"So?"

"So then, what you do is convince me to go in
with you to buy the Rose at auction, with the hopes—no,.wait, not
the hopes, the expectation—the expectation, mind you, of cutting
open the hull and having gold ingots pour out all over us."

"Let's try over here near this workbench?

"But where are the ingots? Where are those
doubloons?"

"Get over here will you?"

"'No dammit! To hell with it; I'm leaving."

"OK fine. Leave me the key."

"What are you doing?"

"We've checked the oil pipes; they're in the
right places. There is a big oil tank out there, buried beyond this
foundation wall. It does have feeder pipes to the smaller tank
inside. So be it. But look farther down the wall."

He joined me as we slid aside the heavy workbench.
Low on the basement wall was a metal flue door.

I opened the metal door and shined the flashlight
inside. I fully expected to see a tunnel, with 'all that —glitters'
at its terminus. The bottom of the flue was filled with ashes. It was
elbow deep in stupid ashes. The back of it was lined with brick.

"Well?"

I felt back at the brick that lined the flue pipe. It
was genuine: raspy, rough, ceramic—any description you could name.
It was going nowhere.

We went upstairs. I checked the portion of the living
room that was exactly above the room in the basement we'd just left.
Nothing. We looked under rugs, behind curtains, in window
sills—nothing.

"Charlie, look," said Joe in a tired,
placating tone, "your hunch just didn't turn out, that's all. If
there was a fortune, and if Kinchloe or Kincaid—whatever the fuck
his name was—hid it away, don't you think he'd do it in some rented
place where he could get at it quickly and safely—at a moment's
notice—away from his wife and her boyfriend, huh?"

I admitted to myself that his theory made sense.
Unhappy and disgusted with his home life, why would he bother to hide
his treasure trove here?

"Let's go," I said. I picked up flashlight,
Polaroid camera, and began to zombie myself toward the front door.

We locked the mansion up carefully as we departed,
then I got in the car and purred off.

But two blocks away, I found myself turning the car
around. It had to be there. Had to. If it were a stash of cash, or
even jewels, another hiding place might make more sense. But not gold
bullion. It was heavy and hard to carry around. It needed a home.

"You crazy?"

"Let's give that furnace room forty good
minutes, Joe, then I'll throw in the towel."

"Done," he said with a weary sigh.

We went over the room with the systematic precision
only a detective and a surgeon could muster. In considerably less
time than forty minutes we found a bucket with a shovel in it. The
bucket had been concealed behind the boiler.

"I may be crazy, but these look like fireplace
ashes to me," said Joe, raking through them.

We opened the flue again. The ashes in the bottom
matched those in the bucket. I didn't know enough about flues to be
sure, but I would bet odds something fishy was happening with the
furnace flue. And come to think of it, the door to the flue looked
awfully big too. We examined the iron door, its . hinges and
mountings. . .everything. It looked as old as the house.

"Goddarmnit Joe, there is a septic tank buried
alongside that oil tank. What the hell's it there for?"

"If there's an entrance to it, maybe it's
outside."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I've looked it over
three times carefully. And remember how close to the foundation it
is."

I stepped back and looked at the brick wall in front
of me. The big oil pipe came in at exactly the right place. OK, that
made sense. The flue, and the door, was in exactly the right place.
There was a flue, and I could look up it to where it joined the
chimney.

No good. I could not detect the signs of disturbed
masonry anywhere. But this Kincaid was a clever old guy. He did
everything in style. He spared no pains, or costs. I knew that by his
house and his company headquarters. He was a sharpie, was old
Kincaid. Perhaps he'd been laying treasure away for years and years,
and finally decided to construct some secret vault before
disappearing. And he would enter the place on the eve of his
departure, and take the stuff aboard his refitted boat, seal it in
down near the keel, and slide aways to Queen's Beach, "Where
Paradise Begins. . ."

"It's in there, Joey. I tell you it's in there.
It's just very cleverly concealed."

Joe opened his pocket knife and began picking and
pecking inside the flue.

"Hey hey hey, look at this, Charlie. This corner
mortar is peeling off like rubber cement."

The jackknife blade scooped away the old mortar along
both back seams of the brick flue. Then we realized that it wasn't
mortar; it was simply caulking compound—probably applied with a gun
and smoothed down with a fingertip—covered with wood ashes to make
it appear old. Joe worked quickly. In less than a minute both seams
were clear; the back wall of the brick flue was free of the side
walls by an eighth of an inch. I rapped hard on the back wall, which
was two feet across. It didn't sound hollow; it was gen-u-wine brick.
Joe shoved at it, tried to slide it. No go. It was solid. Joe hunched
down in front of the hole and took his chin in his hand. `

"Sombitch Charlie. She doesn't wanna budge."

"There's gotta be a gizrno. . .a lever or—"

"Yeah I know what you mean. Let's get back to
looking."

So we scoured the place again from top to bottom.
Nothing. Yet we'd found some fake mortar; that was enough to keep us
at it. So we trudged around the furnace and all its pipes; we
examined the floor and all the walls. Clean as a whistle. We were
just about to give up for a second time when Joe noticed the small
hole in the masonry right behind the furnace. It was only as big in
diameter as the base of my thumb. It was low in the wall, about two
feet from the floor. It was just about invisible. But it was the only
thing in the to wall that wasn't perfect. I shined the flashlight
beam into the hole. I had a lot of trouble peeking in because it was
so small. About six inches inside a brass nut shined back at me. The
curious thing was, it was three-sided. It was an equilateral
triangle. I stepped back and looked at the hole again. Its outer
edges were worn and rounded. It was whitewashed the same shade of
white as the remainder of the foundation wall. Yet inside it was a
shiny brass bolt head of strange configuration. I'll be damned, I
thought.

The innocuous-looking hole in the wall was ten feet
from the ash door.

"Naw, it couldn't be—" said Joe.